By NICK MAIONE
.
Lviv, Ukraine
from Lviv in March
1.
A low-voltage day
didn’t know we had those
the tea won’t boil
thoughts like thieves
take the coins in the hem
leave our coat
the spirit smiles
the idea of a smile
like a kid told to for a photograph
until the photographer
or her mother makes her laugh
let’s fire Andrew of Crete’s canon
of repentance at the
rain rain rain rain
felix sickness
radieux sadness
is the
same same same
same
one can almost make out the words
something about washing in a pool and not staying
chasing the whoness here and there
words we can’t read might still read us
something about an invisible fortress
given these materials
sandbag yoke
heavy but being heavy stops bullets
or acts as a fulcrum
in time and space of peace
the word peace reads us
an image
of an image
of an image
of an image
of an image —…
however far away we imago
if one of these is Dei
aren’t they all
Mary’s lion arrives from Egypt
to help dig
a place for new nakedness
new lines drawn it’s true
whose body was to her flesh
as her countenance was to her face
best dressed in her office
best fabric for grace to get hold
leave unworthiness to die of thirst
leave home and a home is built
a question
from which considerations to move
laid out on the table
a nice table to work on
something welded and useful
in an age of presidents credentialed
by the entertainment industry
says an icon-restorer
we buy bulgur and smoked fish
share disgusting cherry bourbon
in attic apartments
expose false questions
and pale breasts in theaters
as memento mori as a coffin in church
candles around a black coffin
one size too small for adults
the tram rumbles by—
someone’s breaking in
the heater turning on—
someone’s breaking out
2.
The onion dances with the garlic
all around the world
Emmanuel’s turn on the harmonica
here is oil on the surface
here is a motif in the boy
there is an angel in the angel
if done so that there would be
to think of going back to dusty Nazareth
any life at all
any action, quiet or not
does nothing
not one thing
to repel the consequences of general
or one person’s hatred
if anything draws it toward itself
as a kind of concrete sculpture
of a holy person
face down on a trampoline
yellow worm moon
tuned the grey sky purple colors
a Slav night
this darkness some of the finest
ground
these candles get so close
to the cinnabar robe
the blessèd materials
step inside
the icon almost writes itself these days
and these words may be true words
but they may not be ours to say
will we know it though
which are ours to say
Nick Maione‘s work has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, The Common, jubilat, and TriQuarterly, among other journals. A recent finalist for the National Poetry Series and Paraclete Poetry Prize, he holds an MFA from University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Nick edits the online recitation journal Windfall Room and is the founder & director of Orein Arts Residency in Upstate New York.
